You know

Marcel Proust...French writer. Total loser. Never had a real job. Unrequited love affairs. Gay. Spent twenty years writing a book almost no one reads. But he is also probably the greatest writer since Shakespeare. Anyway, he gets down to the end of his life, and he looks back and decides that all those years he suffered, those were the best years of his life because they made him who he was. All the years he was happy, you know, total waste, didn’t learn a thing.

Little Miss Sunshine

He estado leyendo a Proust últimamente, nunca pensé que lo haría, pero te envuelve de tal manera dentro del libro que no puedes seguir viviendo hasta que lo acabas.

Y no sé a qué viene esto.

Que no plogui per favor, que vull veure els Manos de Topo.